


[we're] on the edge right now

by onefootonego (startingXI)



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, death by not dying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 19:46:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14479863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startingXI/pseuds/onefootonego
Summary: beauregard and the stormlord have a conversation.





	[we're] on the edge right now

yasha dies on a thursday.

she dies on a beach, in the sand with blood seeping from innumerable wounds. with jester murmuring every prayer and spell she can think of - but none of it is enough. the last thing beau remembers, before falling to her knees with a special type of agony ripping through her body, are the words leaving jesters lips

‘ _in peace, may you leave these shores.’_

and the way yasha’s looking at her, through her, with unblinking eyes.

beau collapses, hands gripping at her staff, damp sand underneath her, waves lapping at her knees. she screams, unearthly, inhuman - and the world seems to shiver.

\--

beau knows what she has to do. knows she has precious little time before even this fools errand will cease to be effective.

‘are you sure about this?’ fjord asks, and beau knows he’s asking out of concern for her mental state, for the gravity of what she’s prepared to do but -  
  
she whips around ‘yasha would do it for me, for us.’ she bites.  
  
fjord retreats.

\--

in turn, it seems that everyone comes to speak to her. but it is only nott who walks with her out onto the sand - both ignoring yasha’s body, laid out on the sand and molly, sitting vigil with his back to them.

‘i’m doing this.’ beau says, the rain, pelting down from storm clouds, drenching them all.

‘oh i know.’ nott replies, instead unclipping her cloak and laying it out on the sand ‘for you to sit on.’

the gesture is immeasurably kind and beau sits.

she closes her eyes and remembers the words caleb told her and the lore yasha has spoke of.

the lore of the stormlord.

\--

the world shakes, shimmers and the rain descending from the heavens increases tenfold - but still beau does not waver. she sits, cross legged in the sand, facing the ocean, staring across the roiling sea towards the horizon. she is soaked to the bone, the bruises across her neck and shoulders match the colour of the sky, a sky ready for a storm.  
  
' _come on you bastard_ ' beau hisses under her breath, maintaining her focus at the ocean, the waves, the storm.  
  
she can feel the eyes of her compatriots on her. fjord and jester who tried to talk her out of it. nott who gave beau her cloak to sit on. caleb who shared the ancient words. and molly, who put his hands on her shoulders and nodded once.  
  
she can feel them watching, waiting.  
  
the sky shakes again and the world shifts.  
  
beau blinks and -  
  
_you have a death wish, mortal._

beau thinks of yasha, dead in the sand behind her. bruised and battered and broken. she grits her teeth and speaks, responds to the voice she can not see  
  
' _not quite.’_  
  
a deep laugh that sounds like thunder echoes in beau’s head _then what do you want? what do you think you can get from me?_  
  
‘ _yasha.’_ beau replies at once ‘ _her life back.’_

the same laugh shakes beau's bones _and what makes you think i will give you that?_  
  
she can not see the stormlord, but beau will not give up. she will not waver. not when it is yasha's life on the line.  
  
_i asked you a question, mortal, or did you not think this through?_  
  
beau swallows, feeling a pulsing, thrumming echo in her head, her lungs, her brain. there's a constriction around her chest making it harder to breath, making her feel like she's choking, strangling on the nothingness of the void.  
  
‘ _you like lives,’_ beau grits ‘ _lives in your service._ ’  
  
there a hum, a pause _and are you offering you life?_ the stormlord asks.

_‘yes.’_ beau says, without thinking.  
  
[for if she thinks much harder, she will balk. she will flee. she will run away. and beau will not run away from yasha.]  
  
_your life,_ the stormlord says _forever in my service. and in exchange she gets her life back. a life she has already dedicated to me._  
  
‘ _yes.’_ beau says again, she's shaking now, trembling with a cold she can not feel.  
  
_you are foolish._ the stormlord says, and there is a crack, a shuddering explosion that seems to rip through beau, seems to shatter her from head to toe.  
  
the void is gone. the world is gone. beau is spiralling, seizing. she slams back into her body, gasping and shaking. there is a searing pain spiralling around her left arm. an arm she can barely raise, but as she turns to look, cheek pressing into the wet sand, she sees lightening wrapping spiralling and branching from her shoulder, down to her wrist.  
  
a mark. a reminder of her service.  
  
she groans, tastes blood in her mouth.  
  
she hears voices, but they are far away. she closes her eyes, letting out a pain sigh, hoping only that it worked.

\--

beau wakes up some time later. she wakes up in stages: first, aware that she is no longer in the sand. no longer outside, exposed. second, she is near a fire. third, she is in a bed. a bed with blankets and a pillow and -  
  
she hears a voice, a soft accented voice that curls into her ear, accompanied by feather light touches along her forearm ‘ _you're an idiot, you know that?_ ’  
  
yasha.  
  
beau opens her eyes, sees yasha nearly at once. pale skin and dark hair, eyes filled with worry.  
  
‘ _you're welcome.’_ beau says trying to sit up, through a cough and a splutter.  
  
yasha's hand comes to her shoulder and the other reaches for a waterskin at her hip ‘ _easy.’_ yasha murmurs, her voice soft ‘ _drink this.’_  
  
beau complies. she drinks in small sips until her throat does not feel raw. she lets a hand wander down, draping across yasha's bandage covered arm ‘ _you're alive.’_ beau says, more to herself than to yasha.  
  
_yes._ yasha says _i am_ another pause wherein she runs a hand across beau's forehead, moving the hair back behind her head ‘ _thanks to you.’_

_‘you shouldn't have done that.’_ yasha murmurs, and she looks away from beau ‘ _i don't deserve it.’_  
  
beau's grip tightens weakly on yasha's arm you deserve it. she says fiercely _‘i don't regret what i did.’_  
  
_‘not yet.’_  
_  
_ beau lets out a soft sigh of heartbrea _k ‘look at me.’_ she asks quietly, waiting for yasha to do so - and when she does, beau sees tears in her eyes ‘it was worth it, to save you.’

yasha bites her lip, unable to say anything else. instead, she crumples, bringing her forehead to beau's stomach and crying in shaking, muffled and overwhelmed sobs. the action takes beau by surprise, but all she can think to do is run a hand along the back of yasha's neck over and over again. soothing and calming, the best way she knows how.   
  
' _get up here._ ' beau eventually says, shifting over as much as she can on the tiny bed, knowing full well there's not going to be enough room for the both of them, and not caring. she needs yasha close. wants to hear her heartbeat.

wants yasha to know that beau is in this.

for her. for herself.

for them.

**Author's Note:**

> the prayer jester says is from the 100 + the idea for it came from [ontari](http://www.ontari.tumblr.com)
> 
> this is a shorter piece than i would usually write, but this is my first (second-ish) exploration into writing for critical role so we are starting short ha 
> 
> catch me on tumblr at [4beit](https://4beit.tumblr.com/) and we can scream about critical role together.


End file.
